Chapter 419
King Theron had ruled for fifty years, his reign once celebrated, now heavy with the silence of an eroding kingdom. He saw things now, the tapestries of his castle walls growing grotesque faces, the stone gargoyles outside twisting into mocking caricatures of his court.
He never spoke about them, not to his advisors, not to his wife, Queen Lyra; he knew, it would be foolish.
The illusions weren't always visual. Sometimes the scent of mildew would be replaced with the stench of decaying flesh, and the gentle music from the royal lute became a cacophony of screams that only he could hear.
His sanity, he felt, was slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers. He tried to find solace in his duties, signing decrees and listening to the pleas of his people, but even that was turning into a twisted play.
One morning he awoke, the castle felt different; the stone beneath his feet felt smooth, and cool, not the rough, warm stone he knew. He went to his looking glass, but the old man staring back wasn't him.
He was younger, face pale, but oddly familiar. A face of confusion. He spoke, but the voice that came out was foreign, rough like pebbles. Panic seized him, a cold and unforgiving grip, realizing this body wasn't his.
He stumbled from the bed, his new limbs clumsy, alien. He noticed the room was not his chambers, but a stark white box, cluttered with strange devices, metal and glass, all foreign to him.
A screen on the wall glowed an unnerving blue, displaying numbers that made no sense, as well as pictures. He felt a presence nearby, the energy of another living thing. He tried to find it, but they weren't there. He heard a door open in a quiet click.
A tall figure entered, their face concealed behind a transparent mask. The figure spoke, their voice a modulated monotone, "Subject 74, you are awake, good." Subject? He felt he should say something, but his mind scrambled, his new vocal cords not responding. The person turned to a strange white thing on the table and fiddled with it.
The being gestured, then towards the strange screen on the wall. "It's time for your evaluations." Theron, now in this strange body, this "Subject 74," felt dread pool inside him, his mind screaming. They were here to test him. What were they going to do to him? Was he a prisoner?
He didn't understand the evaluation, the tests of his senses and responses to visual cues, the strange words they kept uttering at him, "Cognitive performance, Motor skills, Subjective response" it all felt like a fever dream.
He longed for his familiar throne room, even the unsettling faces on the walls he'd seen before, as they'd been something he could understand.
Days passed, a series of agonizing experiments. He began to learn, the strange language they spoke was called "English" the world outside the white room called "dystopian wasteland," plagued by monsters, not quite the beasts of his era, but something more terrible. He learnt "They" or the entities that held this structure were called The Guardians. He found out his body was merely one they kept in stasis.
He knew it wasn't good. Something had happened. His mind, his soul, his self, had been ripped from his old body and placed here, a prisoner in someone else's skin. He wanted to scream but he knew The Guardians would not care.
He learned they were looking for something, something they called an "adaptive mind." He hated it here.
Then, came the day they released him from the room, into the world they described as "The Wastes." He looked up to see gray sky, ruined skyscrapers all around, the whole world a concrete jungle.
The streets were littered with remnants of a fallen civilization, twisted metal, and the remnants of broken vehicles. He did not see any signs of his kingdom, his castle, any of it. This was not his world.
Monsters roamed freely. grotesque amalgamations of flesh and metal, snarling abominations that hunted with a cruel intelligence. His new body felt slow, weak. He used his new knowledge to find something to defend himself with, a pipe.
He was in constant danger. These monsters, they called "Gnashers" would come without a moment's notice. He learned this the hard way.
He ran as soon as he got a chance. The Guardians left him on his own, but he saw them watching, always, just out of his peripheral. He learned to move quickly, like the city dweller he was in, as the man who previously held this body. He got better at it.
He scavenged scraps, learning to read the signs on the buildings, the ones he could recognize, like stores and police buildings.
His body was strong now, a lot stronger than his own original body. He learned to sleep where he could, hidden away from the monsters. He was alone, and he was scared, for the first time in what felt like centuries.
One day he stumbled upon a group of survivors, huddled around a meager fire in an abandoned train station. They were wary at first, but he spoke their language well enough, after all, he had been speaking to them for days now.
They shared what little they had, and for a fleeting moment, he knew something resembling hope. He was never good at being social. But he had to.
He learned their struggles, the constant fight for survival against the Gnashers and The Guardians. He learned they were looking for a place called "The Sanctuary," a place of safety that was rumored, a place where monsters couldn't get in.
They looked at him to lead them, but he wasn't a king anymore. He was just another one of the forgotten, one of the many in the same spot.
They moved as a group, wary, always searching, always one step ahead of the Gnashers. They crossed the ruined city, facing dangers on all sides, the monsters always close, the Guardians watching. He found himself looking to the sky as they kept running. He wondered if he could be a king again, one day.
His dreams became a nightmarish blend of his old life and this new, brutal reality. He would see the faces of his court, now warped into monsters, pleading with him, or trying to grab him.
He would see Lyra's face, her eyes hollow, her mouth agape in a silent scream. And then, he would see the white room, the blue light, the Guardians. It was a nightmare he couldn't escape.
One night, as they rested in a ruined factory, the Gnashers attacked. The creatures came in hordes, their gnashing teeth tearing through flesh and metal with ease.
The survivors fought bravely, but they were outnumbered. He fought, using his new body's strength, protecting the others, but it wasn't enough. They were pushed down by the horde, one by one. He couldn't see them through the bodies.
He saw one survivor get taken away by The Guardians, who appeared in the middle of the melee, their masked faces cold and unfeeling. He knew he wasn't safe. The creatures swarmed him, ripping at his limbs, as they dragged him deeper into their midst.
He didn't scream, he couldn't, as if he was waiting for this all along. He felt it ripping through him.
He fell, the pain unbearable, as they tore at his flesh. He looked back, into the sky, a gray abyss, as the last thing he ever saw. He was never the king he was meant to be, not in this world, nor his. He was just a tool, a plaything, a subject, for something bigger than him. He deserved better. He didn't get it.